Animus Fidelis
by Kang Xiu
Summary: A case of mistaken identity. Young Jean-Marc Grantaire latches onto the wrong person. [Companion piece to "That's One Gallows That Worked.]


Disclaimer: Kanashimi: "Enjolras and Grantaire are Dead". More than that, neither of them are Korin's.  
  
Author's Note: Jean-Marc Grantaire is mentioned in "That's One Gallows That Worked". He is not a happy person. He has masochistic streaks and is very prone to extreme self-hate. At any rate, he's Reincarnated Grantaire, and he's rather set to following different people. (See "That's One Gallows".) What we have here is a case of mistaken identity.  
  
Animus Fidelis  
  
Andre Torlin was tall, a bit slim, with long, uncut blonde hair. When irritated, he had a habit of creasing his forehead, which made him look quite forbidding. Now, his brow furrowed in annoyance as he realized he'd been followed into his home.  
  
"Who the hell're you?" he demanded of the boy who was standing, shivering and soaked, by the door.  
  
"I'm Jean-Marc. I was - I am - please don't send me away," he rushed.  
  
"Why the devil not? What are you doing, dripping on my floor, anyway? Because if you're just some beggar and you're hoping to stay out of the rain, then you can march yourself right back out again."  
  
The boy's eyes crinkled in upset, giving his already homely face an unhandsome despairing look. "I'm not. I want - I need to stay."  
  
"Jean-Marc, hmmm?" Andre's own green eyes swept over the small figure, not more than fifteen, shaking so badly he looked to fall over, clad in only a long, tattered greatcoat, a once cream-coloured linen shirt, and ripped grey trousers. Hmph. No shoes. "Well, my boy, I expect you to get a new coat. That one is decidedly spendthrift. And ugly. If you're going to stay, at least appear decent and don't shame me."  
  
His soft blue-grey eyes sparkled like starlight with held-back tears. "I can't afford anything better. I haven't any money. I just want to be your follower. Please, let me stay."  
  
"To be my follower? What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"You're going to try and demand rights for the poor, aren't you?"  
  
Andre blinked. "Not me, boy."  
  
The boy swallowed, expression nervous. "You might, though. Sometime in the future. Perhaps you haven't decided yet. I'll stay."  
  
"Not unless you get a new coat."  
  
"I can't afford better," Jean-Marc repeated in distress, darting forward to grab Andre's sleeve. "Please, please don't send me away!"  
  
"Get off!" he shouted, flinging his arm out forcefully, catching the boy hard in the stomach and throwing him against the wall, where he crumpled down, hurt eyes staring out from the heap of dirty clothes. "Jesus, you are a nuisance. Anyone would think God had it in for me."  
  
"No. It's me he's got it in for," the boy whispered brokenly.  
  
Andre glowered furiously. "Damn you. Have you damaged anything?"  
  
A shake of the head.  
  
"Good. Get out."  
  
"Please. I swear, I can find my own food; I don't need anything at all! I wouldn't be a bother! I could take care of myself entirely; I just want to stay here! I need to be your follower."  
  
"Find someone else."  
  
"For Christ's sake --"  
  
"Out."  
  
The boy pulled himself up quickly, achingly, and rushed out. Andre was certain he was crying, in a most childish fashion.  
  
In the days, weeks, and years that ensued, Andre often saw him about. He never changed clothes, never seemed any different from the first time, except older. He grew a beard, some time or another, but he never failed to be around, watching. He followed places, often. He was desperately frustrating and a little unnerving, the way his blue-grey eyes became less soft, and always watched, hungrily, never leaving Andre for long, it seemed. He was always *there*. After a bit, he was always there with a bottle in hand. It was enough to make a man lose sleep, to grow haggard and pale, from this sick kind of dogging demon. And he was forever out of reach. When searched for, he disappeared. And it went on. And *on*.  
  
God, how Andre hated him!  
  
At last, he could take it no longer. He *dreamed* of the horrible figure at night. He caught the boy - for he was still "the boy" to Andre - one evening, as the night fell, by running faster than a spirit and more hidden than shadows would have been in the shadows. He spoke in a low, panicked mutter, almost certain now that it was a devil's sleeve, and not a man's, he held.  
  
"Why the hell do you keep following me?"  
  
The boy's voice was deeper now, rougher and bitterer, but it was still the same voice. "Said I was your follower. Seems to be for nothing, though, doesn't it? Wish you'd taken me in? Too late now. I have my own places. Are you still as unkind? No matter. Let me go."  
  
He did, with alacrity. "You said you wanted me as some political activist, didn't you? Well, why don't you go find one of them? Say, Luc Bahorel?"  
  
"I'm just here for you, m'sieur."  
  
"Well, don't! Go away! Satan himself wouldn't be so cruel as to send you after me, demon!"  
  
The boy laughed horribly. "I'm no demon, I'm just - oh, begging your pardon, a demon."  
  
Suddenly they both whirled around, startled, at the sound of a new voice behind them. A young man was speaking to a little gamine of a tender age, nine, Andre suspected. The man was even younger than Jean-Marc, with beautiful golden hair and a fragile stature, at least from behind. He was pressing a few coins into the girl's hand, and then he straightened, proving himself tall, as well. He turned, and looked in disgust at Andre and the boy, who stared back transfixed.  
  
In a hoarse whisper, Jean-Marc said to Andre, "I'm very sorry. I've been following the wrong person. That's the man. His name is Enjolras, isn't it? Michel Enjolras?"  
  
"I wouldn't know."  
  
"It is. He is. And you're not. I beg your pardon. Forget I ever existed. I shan't trouble you again. Oh, God. This is the man." And with that, the boy slipped into the shadows after Enjolras.  
  
Andre swallowed hard, severely shaken. "Enjolras, you will live to regret this. At least now the creature is yours. Good luck." Then, shuddering, he ran back into his apartments, locking the door.  
  
The next day, when he ventured out, Jean-Marc was nowhere to be seen. With a great, long, trembling sigh of relief, he somehow knew that the boy was gone forever, and he was free.  
  
Owari ~ End 


End file.
